


The Cure is Worse than the Disease

by Arukou



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Iron Man - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Explicit Language, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Seriously guys, Torture, platonic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-19
Updated: 2014-06-19
Packaged: 2018-02-05 07:26:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1810192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arukou/pseuds/Arukou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This should be the easiest thing in the world. It's a shower. Nothing complicated about taking a shower. But Tony can complicate anything.</p><p>Iron Man I, filling in the scenes</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cure is Worse than the Disease

This should not be difficult. This should be the easiest thing in the world. He’s spent three months in a cave being threatened, beaten, tortured. He built a micro-reactor and a super weapon and escaped captivity _in spite_ of the fact that the bad guys were armed to the teeth with _his_ weapons and that he and Yinsen were outnumbered 60 to 2. (And doesn’t that just burn at the back of his eyes? Yinsen’s blood and the horrible death rattle at the back of his throat and oh God, oh God...)

And now he’s vomiting into the toilet, clear liquids to start because he was dehydrated as hell, but it means that everything comes up quickly and efficiently at least. But even after his stomach is completely empty, his insides continue to clench and twist around themselves.

It’s long minutes later, his forehead pressed to the toilet seat (disturbingly familiar position, really), that he manages to turn his head and glare at the shower. “This is all your fault,” he murmurs, but there’s no real heat in his voice. It’s not like the faucet’s going to argue with him anyway.

Tony leans back against the wall, the tile cold against his bare skin. Lovely open-backed hospital gowns. He feels as pretty as a fucking princess. But the doctors have sewn up his wounds and he’s on an IV drip and his arm is wrapped and thrust through a sling, bruised and sprained, but very thankfully not broken. All things considered, he’s unbelievably lucky (He’s never admitting it to a soul, though) that he came away with so little damage. It’s just his brain that seems to be broken.

“Come on, Stark,” he murmurs to himself, staring at the clean, white hospital space, the glaring porcelain and steel. “It’s just like being caught in the rain. With pi _ñ_ a coladas. Or something. This will be easy. It’ll feel nice. You can wash Afghanistan out of your pores.” (You can wash the smell of burning skin and hair out of your pores.)

But stupidly, freakishly, his gag reflex kicks in again. (Huh, guess there was still some bile in there.) It’s in this position, dignity literally flushing down the drain and ass to the door, that Rhodey walks in without knocking.

“Tony,” he says, and even as he heaves, Tony flinches away. (Why now? Why the fuck would he come in now? He can hear this shit, right? …Oh.)

Rhodey’s hands are on his back, tugging the gown shut and resting on his shoulder blades, supporting him as the heaves subside.

“It’s like the worst hangover on the planet,” Tony says with a smirk as he leans into the wall, tipping his head back until his skull knocks against tile.

“No. That was Florida, 1992.”

Tony snorts and replies. “Yeah. I still can’t drink Long Island Iced Tea.”

“Yeah you can. You had one in Vegas three months ago.”

The smirk disappears. That was _before_. Now it’s _after_. Tony bites the inside of his cheek, glancing between Rhodey and the shower, debating whether or not he should smother his issues in the usual coating of sarcasm, or just be straightforward for once in his life.

“They said I should take a shower. Said I would feel better once I cleaned up a little.”

“You will.”

“Not so sure about that.”

Rhodey slides down the wall next to him, dress blues wrinkling around his waist. “What’s up, Tony?”

“They…uh…I…I don’t know if I can.”

Rhodey looks out of the corner of his eye, taking in Tony, his gaunt features, the blue hospital gown, the wounds, the sling, the IV. “You need help?”

“I always need help, Rhodey, though usually when people tell me that, they’re talking about a shrink.”

“Well, you do need that kind of help. All the time.”

Tony takes a shuddering breath, propping his good arm on his knee and sinking down into the cold floor a little deeper. “They…let’s just say…Me and water aren’t exactly getting along right now.”

Tony can see Rhodey’s expression. He’s a smart guy. He’s a pilot. They don’t let morons be pilots. (Except that one guy who crashed Tony’s prototype fighter jet on the first run back in ’98. That guy was a fucking tool.) And Tony can see the exact moment that Rhodey understands what happened in that cave.

“Are there…are there any other things you’re not getting along with,” he says cautiously, his tone and body language testing.

“Oh, you know. Guns, missiles, flame throwers, fists, hot coals, boots.” (Watching a friend die.) “Terrorists. Terrorists are pretty high on that list.”

“Well, I’m not armed and I promise I won’t punch you. Unless you’re an asshole. No guarantees then.”

Tony manages to smile, though his face feels strangely tight. He doesn’t feel much like smiling. Or showering.

Rhodey looks at him sidelong again and then stands, offering a hand. “Come on. You smell like war, and that’s probably not helping you. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“What are you, my nurse?”

Rhodey fixes him with hard, serious eyes, even as Tony rises. “I’m your friend. God knows why. But I’m your friend. And you’re not going through this alone.”

Together, they get Tony stripped naked and his IV and arm wrapped in a plastic bag so they don’t get wet. He can see the way Rhodey winces at his ribs, exposed from months of subpar nutrition, but the colonel never says a word. He can see the way his eyes are drawn to the cool blue light of the arc reactor, the scarring and bruising around the port. And it’s not like Rhodey didn’t already know, but it’s one thing to know and another thing entirely to _see_ the giant hole in Tony’s chest. But there are only three people in the world Tony would want to know about this massive weakness, this major triumph, and Rhodey is one of them.

But never mind the reactor. There’s a shower. And now it’s Tony, forcing himself into the shower. Standing in the shower. Staring at the showerhead.

“Stand at the back,” Rhodey orders, and for once in his life, Tony goes without complaint or resistance.

“I’m turning the water on,” he says, and Tony hates this. He hates it with every fiber of his being. That he has to be babied and coddled like this. (Dad would disown me.) But the water is coming down now, and he has to fight back another wave of nausea.

“The water you’re not getting along with. Is it hot water or cold water?”

“Cold,” he says through clenched teeth, body coiled as tight as a cornered snake.

Rhodey turns the taps and the water starts steaming. “We’re going to do this quick,” he says as he tests the temperature with his hand. “You’re going to step under the shower until you’re wet enough to get soap suds and then you’re going to step back out. Ok?”

And Tony can do this. It’s just water. It’s just (drowning and choking and the electromagnet short-circuiting in his chest and bruising fingers at the back of his neck) a fucking shower. But when it comes time to take a step, he freezes, water flowing around the soles of his feet.

Rhodey doesn’t say anything. He just grabs Tony’s hand, squeezing reassuringly. “You will take a step,” he says, and somehow, that tone makes it easier. Tony takes the step. And if he’s squeezing Rhodey’s hand so hard that he can hear knuckle joints cracking, well, he’s only human.

The water is on him, around him, flowing down his spine, soaking his hair, and Tony is breathing breathing breathing (Breathe! Don’t fucking drown!) and then Rhodey’s tugging him back out. Suddenly, unceremoniously, there’s soap and a washcloth in his hand. “Scrub,” Rhodey barks, and then turns away.

And Tony is breathing breathing breathing, checking, double-checking, triple-checking the arc reactor. Everything is fine. Everything is good. And then he soaps himself down. “Ok,” he murmurs, and Rhodey takes the washcloth and soap and hands him shampoo instead.

“Wash twice or it will still smell like smoke.” And that’s right. Rhodey’s a soldier. He’s speaking from experience. (Who held his hand when he was left shaking with nightmares?) But Tony dutifully scrubs out his hair and then scrubs it out again, digging his fingernails into the scalp, favoring his injured arm. He even scrubs out his beard, because in for a dime in for a dollar.

“Scrubbed,” Tony says, and while part of him really wants to be lippy, a bigger part of him just wants this to be _over_.

Rhodey turns and grabs his hand again. “You’re going to step back under the water. You’re going to get all the soap off you. And then you’re going to step back out.”

This time, Tony doesn’t have to be tugged. He manages to take the step all on his own (Look, Mom! I’m a big kid now!) and then the water is there again. In his nostrils and in his mouth and in his ears and in his _chest_ and he’s hyperventilating. He knows it on an intellectual level. He scrambles his hand through his hair, soap out water out water out, tries to sluice off all the suds, and throws himself back to the other end of the shower.

Rhodey gives him a critical, impersonal inspection, and then shuts the tap off. Tony’s heart is beating in his ears, on his tongue, but it’s _beating_ and isn’t that just the best “Fuck you!” he could possibly give those terrorists? (Besides blowing up their cave and all their weapons. That was a pretty big “Fuck you!”) He’s still breathing too quickly, but Rhodes is talking at him, counting at him, and somehow Tony manages to follow the pattern, slow his lungs.

“Alright,” he says after a moment and his voice is cool and calm, and Tony hadn’t realized Rhodey still had his hand. “You did it. Next time, maybe it will be a little easier.”

“Next time maybe there will be a hot German nurse.”

Rhodey raises an eyebrow in irritation, but his eyes are still worried. He reaches behind now and grabs a towel. “Dry yourself off. I’m going to grab you some clothes. The doctors have cleared you to fly home, but you have to go to a hospital stateside. We clear?”

“Crystal,” Tony says, but there’s not going to be a hospital. He doesn’t need more doctors poking and prodding and wondering how he even _survived_ the surgery. He doesn’t need anyone to see him exposed. What he needs is to right some wrongs and right them quickly. He runs the towel over his chest, clears away the water, and presses his fingers to the arc reactor. Tony has work to do.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://arukou-arukou.tumblr.com/).


End file.
